The Green Ones are Sexy
by EmpireX
Summary: Lisa and Cynthia need a change of pace. Hijinks ensue and everyone's favorite assassin makes an appearance.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: THE GREEN ONES ARE SEXY  
AUTHOR: EmpireX  
DISCLAIMER: Do I own Red Eye? Why no, I don't. That honor belongs to Carl Ellsworth, Wes Craven, and Dreamworks. Don't sue, mmkay?  
RATING: M for langage and sexual situations.

SUMMARY: Lisa and Cynthia need a change of pace. Hijinks ensue.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Last Saturday I stayed in bed til 2 pm reading Chelsea Handler's _My Horizontal Life_. It's a memoir that will make you laugh out loud and possibly even wet yourself, so that's $14 well spent. I blatantly stole the whole _costume party/stuck in a window _bit, but the rest is mine. Sorry I haven't been updating _It's Not the Fall that Kills You_. It's not dead, I swear!

THE GREEN ONES ARE SEXY

About a month after Jackson Rippner conveniently (or rather _in_conveniently - depending on how you looked at it) disappeared from the hospital while in police custody, I lost my job at the Lux.

My thrilling and heroic story of thwarting an evil terrorist had made the news. National media outlets were camped outside my dad's house, my apartment, and the hotel, all desperately trying to get an interview, even a _quote_, something, _anything_, for just one little sound-bite. I felt like a turtle, hunching my shoulders and ducking my head, holding a newspaper in front of my face as I ran from my front door to my car, or from my car to the front door of the Lux.

Diana Salas from the Lux's H.R. department flew down from New York to terminate me herself.

She called me into my boss' office and very kindly told me that, although the company admired my quick thinking and applauded my courageous efforts to save Deputy Director Keefe and his family, my cooperation (however temporary) with a terrorist had caused millions of dollars in damages to the Lux Atlantic and my presence on the premises was causing a disruption to business.

Not wanting to seem completely heartless, the company offered me a severance package of six months pay with benefits.

"You can finish out the day, if you like," Diana said warmly, her hand on mine and her eyes portraying the perfect blend of compassion and benevolence. I was sure it was a look she had perfected for this very situation. A look that made it impossible for me to tell her to take that severance package and shove it up her ass without seeming disingenuous.

So it was either clean out my desk right then and get the walk of shame over with, or put it off until 5 o'clock that night.

I've got a great bullshit-smile, but I didn't think even _I_ could keep it up for ten hours.

Bob, my boss - _scratch that _- ex-boss, helped me gather my things and carried the box containing my framed awards, photos, and my potted succulents, out to the car. "I'm so sorry, Lisa. Corporate is making a huge mistake. I told them that. Well, be sure to put me down as a reference on your resume. You'll get nothing but glowing recommendations from me, I promise."

"Thanks, Bob." I offered him a tight-lipped smile. It was all I could muster and the guy looked like he was about to cry.

When I got home, there was a voicemail from some producer named Leslie at Harpo Productions. Oprah wanted to fly me to Chicago to be on her show. I called Leslie back and said, "Thanks, but no thanks."

No flying. Not _ever_.

XXXXX

Cynthia's shift was just beginning when mine was supposed to end. I knew that as soon as she got to work and heard about my dismissal, she'd be calling.

The phone rang at 5:23.

"Oh my god, Lise! Oh my god! I can't believe they would do this! After all you've done for this hotel, for this company... And they want _me_ to take over your job! I can't handle that kind of responsibility! I can't! I'll have a nervous breakdown! I think I should quit. Do you want me to quit? Solidarity, and all that...

I told her she'd do fine and there was no reason for both of us to be jobless, but I appreciated her support.

"Do you want me to come over after I get off? I could pick up a couple pints of Ben and Jerry's..."

"It'll be after 3 a.m. by the time you're out of there. I'll be in bed..." I knew I'd be up, but wasn't really in the mood for company.

"Well, if you're not, call me. I'll come right over."

"You're a sweetheart. I've gotta go, my dad's calling on the other line."

"Oh, okay. Well, I'll talk to you soon."

"All right. G'night, Cynthia."

"'Night, Lisa."

I hung up and pulled the covers back over my head.

XXXXX

A month later, I thought _I_ was going to have a nervous breakdown.

My dad called at least five times a day to check on me. _How was the job search coming? Did I want him to contact that friend of his that had an opening in his company? Did I want him to come by and install the surround sound system for my TV that he bought for me out of the blue and was still in the box and unopened? Should he call that security company and get quotes on a membership for me? _

It wasn't, and no, no, and no.

He wanted me to move back in with him. I honestly considered it for about five seconds. It might be nice not having to feel the need to sleep curled up with a field hockey stick. But then I realized that having your dad hovering around you like a Jewish mother could really put a damper on a girl's depressive couch-surfing time.

"It's fine, Dad. I'm fine. Everything's fine."

It wasn't, of course. Of course it wasn't. I was becoming a jittery recluse and I'd put on fifteen pounds. But that's what happens when you guzzle coffee by the pot, only eat delivery pizza, stop jogging, and stay up all night watching infomercials and _Cheaters_ because you're too scared to fall asleep and you're sure that it's only a matter of time before a certain blue-eyed terrorist breaks into your home and stabs you to death while you sleep.

Cynthia wasn't fairing much better, either.

"I don't know how you did this for so long, Lisa. I hate this job! I've asked Bob to find someone else and let me have my old position back, but he keeps putting off hiring anyone! And my mom... God! I invited her and dad to dinner to meet Jim and you should have _seen_ what she wore! That skirt would have been too short for a _streetwalker_! And she wouldn't stop flirting with him and touching his arm! '_Oh, Jim, you're so funny!'_ He wasn't _trying_ to be _funny_! There's nothing _funny_ about tax law! Any normal person could see how uncomfortable she was making him. God, she _always _does this! And then when I call her on it, she gets all offended and hurt and starts crying, like I'm being unreasonable because I don't want her walking around in a string-bikini in front of my boyfriend!"

I had heard the string-bikini story before. Cynthia, a pretty but shy teenager, hadn't had her first boyfriend until she was a week away from turning eighteen. She invited him to her birthday party, which was being held at her house. It was a pool party with a Hawaiian theme. It was the perfect place to have it: Cynthia's parents had a huge house and a huge pool with a faux-waterfall and faux-lagoon to go along with it. It was a catered affair. There were twinkle lights and tan, buff performers with washboard abs juggling flaming torches. And Cynthia's mom, made up like Ginger from _Gilligan's Island_, decided to make her grand entrance and debut her new double D's in a gold lame string-bikini just as everyone was singing _Happy Birthday_ to her daughter. The eyes of the boys of her graduating class, Cynthia's boyfriend included, hardly left Mrs. Connelly's chest the remainder of the night and Cynthia tried her best to ignore the disgusted looks from the girls. And that wouldn't be the last time Cynthia's mom would feel the need to compete with her daughter for a little male attention.

So a week later, it turned out that Cynthia's fears weren't entirely unfounded. Jim broke up with her. I guess having your girlfriend's creepy cougar mother hit on you makes you wonder what you're getting yourself into.

"Bring some more Ben and Jerry's when you come," I told her. "I haven't been able to get to the store yet." Actually, I hadn't been to the grocery store in a month. That would have required leaving the couch.

"Sure thing," she sniffled. "I'll pick up a movie, too. _Love Story_?"

"Ah, a perfect movie for wallowing."

XXXXX

She arrived about an hour later. I let her in and took the grocery bag from her arms. "Come on in," I said. I turned and carried the ice cream into the kitchen. When I came back out, she was still standing in the doorway, frowning, a vague look of disgust on her face.

"Lisa, what's that smell?"

I frowned, sniffed the air. "What smell?"

She took a tentative step into the apartment. "Seriously, you don't smell that? When's the last time you cleaned this place up?" she asked, surveying the empty pizza boxes and dirty dishes.

I shuffled over to the coffee table and began picking up the trash. "_Sorry_," I said, trying not to sound too offended. "I would have cleaned up if I'd had more time..."

She came over to take some of the dirty dishes from my arms. She leaned in close and then recoiled, a look of shock on her face. "When's the last time you _showered_, for that matter?"

My jaw dropped. "I shower!" I shouted in protest, but then remembered I hadn't showered in two days. I frowned. "Hey, I've had a lot on my plate lately, okay?"

"Says the girl with no clean plates!"

I gave her a withering glare. "Oh, ha, ha. You're a riot."

She put the stack of dirty plates down. "Lisa," she said very seriously, putting her hands on my shoulders. "Sweetie, you stink."

Again, my jaw dropped. "I do _not_!"

"You do."

She turned me around and prodded me in the direction of the bathroom. "You're going to take a shower right this minute. A _long_ one. Do not pass 'Go,' do not collect two-hundred dollars. Into the bathroom. _Now._" She shoved me in, turned on the light, and closed the door behind me. I blinked furiously in the harsh light of the five super-bright light bulbs above the bathroom mirror. When I could see again, I surveyed my greasy hair in an unkempt bun on the top of my head and the wrinkled, stained Muppets t-shirt and matching draw-string pajama bottoms I'd been wearing for two days.

_Oh, Jesus_. Cynthia was right. I looked like that kid Pigpen from _Peanuts_. I probably smelled like him, too.

I shuddered in disgust and stripped.

Forty-five minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, my skin lobster-red from hot water and a good scrubbing, and my now floral-scented hair twisted up in a towel. I fingered the tie of my robe and shuffled into the living room.

I heard the dishwasher kick on in the kitchen. Cynthia, bless her heart, had cleaned up the living room, too. I was mortified.

She appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, two bowls of Chunky Monkey in her hands. "Well? How do you feel?" she asked.

"Better," I said sheepishly. "Thanks."

She sat down next to me on the couch, offered me a bowl.

"So... I _think _you might be a little depressed, Lise," she said, conversationally.

I sighed. "I think you might be right."

XXXXX

We watched _Love Story_, cried for Ali MacGraw and Ryan O'Neal, and discussed our futures. We decided since we were both twenty-six and hated our job, and lack of a job, respectively, as well as Miami, it was time to broaden our horizons.

"How does California sound to you?" Cynthia asked. "Lots of hotels..."

I groaned. "Yay. Another thankless job."

"...AND California has no clingy, over-protective fathers," she said, referring to mine, "OR competitive, lushy mothers," she said, referring to hers.

"They have earthquakes," I said. "The whole state could break off and fall into the ocean at any moment."

"We could stay here and get blown away by a hurricane."

"But it's always _sunny_," I pointed out. "You _hate_ the sun."

"Yeah, but there's, like, _zero_ humidity. Think of our _hair_!"

I paused to think for a moment, then sighed. "California, here we come."

Cynthia clapped her hands and told me to pack a bag.

Two weeks later, we loaded up her teal Ford Taurus and off we went.

XXXXX

Dad was definitely _not_ happy that I'd up and moved about as far away from him as I could and still remain on the same continent. I got an earful from him, and who could blame him? Still, I could tell he was relieved when I told him that Cynthia and I were sharing a nice, three-bedroom apartment in the valley, that we were gainfully employed, that I had taken up yoga, and that I was even dipping my toes in the dating pool again. No one had really caught my eye (Well, that's not true. L.A. was filled with beautiful people, just low on substance), and some of the dates had been downright disastrous, but the point was, I was _trying_.

Cynthia had taken a job as a production assistant at one of the studios. A masochistic move on her part, I told her, but she didn't believe me. The only good thing about the job - it certainly wasn't the pay - was that she got to meet a lot of people, and soon we had a circle of friends. I got a job at the Beverly Hills Hilton (surprise, surprise), catering to the whims of celebrities and executives from the film, TV, and music industries. It could be awful, but I'm not going to lie, it could also be rewarding. I was often put on the guest list at many a celeb's birthday bash, or a band's CD party - not because I'd formed some deep, abiding friendships with them - but because I was seen as a trust-worthy and aesthetically pleasing employee, and in this city, a celebrity's value is measured by the size of their entourage and the number of rich and/or pretty people who flocked to their parties. I certainly didn't have to twist Cynthia's arm to come with me - she loved every minute of it.

Six months in, though, while getting a date was easy, I realized I was having the _same _date _over and over_. The guys all looked the same: tan, perfectly white, even teeth (which I was starting to find unnatural and disturbing), nice bodies (Okay, I didn't mind _that_ so much.), and professionally mussed hair. They were all mind-numbingly dull in that every blessed one of them was either an actor, a singer, an entertainment lawyer, a model, a producer, or had aspirations to be one or _all_ of those things... and they certainly loved talking about themselves. So while there was never a lull in the conversation, I often found myself bored to tears.

I was starting to come to the conclusion that there were no interesting men in the entire city.

I found myself thinking that very thing on Valentine's Day.

It fell on my day off, so I had spent the day in bed with my life partner, Nelson Mandela. Not the former South African president, but a regal Siamese who strangely resembled him. Shortly after we moved into the apartment, he had adopted Cynthia and me. Nelson changed my mind about cats. I had always considered myself a dog-person, finding cats emotionally withholding - unless you had food. Nelson wasn't like that at all. He was always affectionate and often hilarious. I'd never seen a cat so dog-like. Nelson loved playing in water and he loved chasing his tail.

Nelson's only vices were Cheetos and whipped cream. He knew the _ktcshhhhhhhhhhh_ sound that the whipped cream made as it sprayed out of the aerosol can and he knew the sound of the Cheetos bag crinkling. Those sounds would throw him into a tizzy of mewling cries and dancing on his hind legs, his front paws patting against our thighs as he begged. When the Cheetos were gone, we'd slice open the bag and let him lick it a little. Or we'd give him a spoonful of the thick, white cream and listen to him purr like a chainsaw as he delicately lapped it up.

So anyway, it was Valentine's Day and I was cuddled up with Nelson Mandela watching a romantic movie marathon on TBS Superstation. Something with Matthew McConaughey, who I used to adore, until the whole naked bongo-playing incident and the interview where he proudly proclaimed he never wore deodorant. _Gross._ But in this movie, however, Matthew did not appear to be hygienically challenged. In fact, he had just saved the hapless heroine from a nasty spill. I had never seen this movie, but I knew that event would predictably lead to a magical first kiss. Give me a frickin' break. I had to wonder how these people who write romantic comedies could sleep at night.

The phone rang. It was my friend Kenya calling to tell me she'd gotten us all an invite to a costume party that night and my attendance was mandatory.

"I don't wanna go."

"Bitch, your skinny ass is going. It's at a warehouse downtown and it's a fundraiser to help children with disabilities."

I had no desire to leave my bed, but I had to pull through for the kids. "We're meeting at the Compound to preparty," Kenya continued.

The Compound was the apartment building where our friend Lydia lived with all her degenerate neighbors. It was kind of a _Melrose Place_-type building, minus the pool and the six-figure incomes. It was a fun place to hang out and party, but not a fun place to wake up. Lydia and all of her neighbors had slept with each other at one time or another. The place had become an official lazy Susan.

"Wait! I don't have a costume."

"Go rent one."

"I can't," I said. "Bobby and Whitney's E! True Hollywood Story is on in ten minutes."

"Bitch!" Kenya swore. "I will _make_ you a damn costume if I have to!"

I laughed and hung up.

Ten minutes later, Kenya called back to tell me her cousin Jen had an extra genie costume with a bustier that would look hot.

"The pants are see-through, so wear full panties," she warned.

"Thanks for the heads-up."

"Tell Cynthia to be over there by eight. We'll all get ready there."

XXXXX

Parking at Lydia's was always a nightmare, so I called our friend Holden who lived around the corner and parked in his driveway. Holden is like one of the girls. He's a sweet guy, but his major flaw is that he has a severe case of ADD. He's the type of person who asks you a question and then interrupts the answer with another question. This can be very annoying, especially if you are a woman and upset - which has resulted in many dramatic break-up scenes with his girlfriends involving clothes and furniture being thrown off balconies. Holden doesn't mind being yelled at, so I guess that helps release the anger related to him not listening in the first place.

Holden didn't know about the party, probably because he wasn't paying attention when he got invited, so I invited him again. He didn't have a costume either, so I told him to wear one of his wet suits. Holden owns his own beachwear company, where he sells everything from scuba suits to surfboards.

When we got to Lydia's place, all four girls were already dressed. Lydia was a sexy schoolgirl, Kenya was a sexy cop, Cynthia was a sexy cat, and Jen was the green M&M.

The genie costume was really cute and fit me perfectly. As soon as Jen saw it on me I caught a look on her face that said, _"Take that off, I'm wearing it."_

"Lisa," Jen said. "I have an idea. You can be the M&M!"

_Fuck_, I thought. Jen was about six inches shorter than me and smaller boned, too. I didn't even know if I'd fit into that M&M.

"Umm, that's okay," I said. "You keep it. You like chocolate more."

"I insist," she said, grinning like one of those crazed cheerleaders after they've been hurled into the air. "And anyway, the genie's _my _costume in the first place. I brought it for _you_."

_Bitch._

"Bitch, are you for real?"

My eyes bugged out for a second because I thought I'd just had the mother of all Freudian slips.

But it was Kenya, arms crossed, all six feet of her glowering at her cousin. "You just mad 'cuz my girl is killin' in that outfit and you look like an Oompa Loompa."

"What's your problem, _Kenya_? _Lisa_ doesn't have a problem with it, do you, Lisa?"

Kenya and Jen have a bit of a love/hate relationship. Mostly hate. Their moms are sisters and very close, but also very different and _very_ competitive. That competitiveness was obviously passed down to Jen, but it's always grated on Kenya. But when Kenya gets mad, she doesn't back down, either. She gets "ghetto" on your ass - her words, not mine. At six feet tall, she's slim, but muscular, with legs like a racehorse. Jen's practically half her size and though I might like to see Kenya pick her up and launch her out the window like a javelin, I didn't want to be the cause of a family feud and ruin the evening.

"It's fine," I said.

"See? It's fine," Jen said to Kenya.

"'Cuz Lisa's too classy to tell you you're being a snotty 'lil bitch, _Jennifer_. But _I'm_ not."

Jen rolled her eyes. "That's for _sure_."

Kenya lunged toward her and I placed a hand on her chest to hold her back at the same that Lydia grabbed her around the middle. "Bitch, I will _slap_ the black offa you!" Kenya threatened.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Everyone needs to chill out!" Lydia shouted.

"It's fine, Kenya, really. It's just a costume," I smiled and gave a little laugh to try to lighten her up.

Kenya threw up her hands. "Whateva. I'm going downstairs." She pointed one long, manicured nail at Jen. "Ho, you can find ya own ride to the party, _okay_?

I put on the cursed M&M suit. The top part was the shape of a pumpkin and formed a perfect green sphere around my body. It came with matching white tights that I wore over my underwear. There were black ballet slippers which were slightly too small, but they'd do. The only thing was that, as I'd feared, the costume was made for a shorter person. The bottom fell about four inches past the curve of my ass, which meant I would have to be _very_ careful all night. No bending over, no stooping. If I dropped my purse, I was s.o.l.

"I need your panties," Jen said while checking herself out in the full-length mirror. You could see right through her genie pants, and she was wearing a leopard thong.

I looked around to see who she was addressing. Her eyes met mine in the mirror.

_You've got to be fucking kidding me._

"I'm not giving you my panties," I said.

"You need to give me them. I can't wear this outfit with a thong," Jen insisted.

_Bitch_, I thought. _You should have thought of that before you made me change!_ I was ready to call Kenya back up there to kick her ass.

"Fine!" I huffed as I peeled everything off and put the tights back on.

"Lise, don't you want some underwear?" Lydia asked. "You can have a pair of mine."

"No, I'll be fine." I wasn't in the business of wearing other people's underwear, clean or not (and certainly not Lydia's) and could not believe Jen was willing to wear mine.

"Do you want the green paint for your face?" Jen asked.

"No thanks," I said, shooting her a dirty look.

There's a fine line between being easygoing and being taken advantage of, and allowing someone to paint my face green would have been the latter.

"What's the matter? You look adorable," Jen said in the same voice you'd use talking to a girl who was going to her prom in a full-body cast. _With head-gear_.

XXXXX

The party had potential, but I never got into the swing of things due to my somber mood. Holden and I sat in a corner and made fun of people's costumes, and when we tired of that, I started making fun of Holden, who was sweating so profusely that he had taken down the top half of his scuba suit and was now topless.

At the end of the party, Lydia told us that we were all going to after-hours at some guy in a Batman suit's apartment. The only selling point was that the apartment was in Santa Monica, located conveniently around the corner from Lydia's. Kenya gave us a peace-out. She was going home to her hubby, who was an EMT, and was finally home from his shift. Cynthia wasn't feeling well, so Kenya took her home.

The super-fun after-party turned out to be super-lame. Everyone just sat around drinking and listening to music. I wandered into Batman's bedroom and found a Nintendo box attached to his TV. I hadn't seen one of those things in years! The excitement I felt at that moment could be paralleled only by No Doubt releasing another album.

I was on level four of Super Mario Brothers when Lydia came in and told me that she thought Jen and Batman were going to hook up.

"Poor guy," I lamented. "You wanna go?"

"Yeah, let's go. You wanna sleep at my place?" she asked.

Holden, Lydia, and I called a cab. We were all a little too sloshed to drive. Jen stayed behind. We got dropped off at the Compound. I told Holden I'd come by in the morning for my car. He waved goodbye and headed off down the street to his apartment.

People were still up at the Compound, partying in the courtyard, loud music blaring from someone's apartment.

"I'm going to bed," I told Lydia. "Give me your keys."

She looked through her purse for an amount of time that I knew could only result in her not having them.

"Shit," she said. "I think I left them at Batman's." She didn't seem concerned in the slightest. "Oh, well. We'll figure something out."

Just then, Lydia's neighbor Gary moseyed over in his cowboy costume to say hi. He tipped his five-gallon hat and asked what was wrong.

"Lydia lost her keys and I need to sleep," I groaned

"My door's open. Just go crash. I'll take the sofa."

"Thanks," I said, utterly grateful. I wanted to be done with this craptastic day. Not knowing Gary, or his hygiene very well, I elected to keep on my M&M costume. I passed out and remember feeling Lydia crawl into bed some time later that night.

At around six that morning, I awoke to noises that could only be associated with coitus. They were coming from the bathroom. Suddenly, there were loud crashes of what I presume were toiletries falling to the floor.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh my god! Gary! Yes! Right there! No, up more... Oh my GOD!" yelled Lydia.

Though I couldn't see myself, I know I had that same look on my face that Macaulay Culkin had in _Home Alone_ when he realizes that his parents have forgotten him.

I rolled out of bed, fell on the floor, and crawled out the door, keeping my head down like I was dodging enemy fire. I hadn't walked two steps out the door before I realized I needed my cell phone, purse, and shoes. I tried the door. Locked. I knocked, but no one answered, of course. They were too busy making the beast with two backs.

I looked around for some sign of life and quickly realized I must have taken my contacts out at some point. Everything beyond twenty feet was blurry. Oh, this was not good. I paced back and forth, trying to think of what I should do, when I remembered my car was only blocks away at Holden's.

Should I walk the five blocks to Holden's in my M&M costume? I knocked on Gary's door again, but to no avail. I could still hear Lydia moaning away, the whore, and thought I might be physically sick. Hearing your friend moaning someone's name during sex is about as disturbing as hearing your parents. Don't ask me how I know that.

There was no other choice. The longer I waited, the more people would be out and about and see me in my ridiculous outfit. I ran down the stairs and sprinted up the sidewalk towards Holden's. I stubbed my toe almost immediately, which slowed me to a brisk limp.

What I could barely make out as a woman walking her dog toward me crossed to the other side of the street upon seeing me. A guy in a passing car slowed down and yelled out the window, "Rough night?"

It was one thing to be seen wandering around in an M&M costume on Halloween or maybe even the day after, but this was _February_. This was humiliating.

To make it worse, with every step, the costume kept riding up above my butt and I kept having to hold it down with one hand behind my back. Also? This M&M really had to pee.

When I arrived at Holden's, I started chucking rocks at his sliding glass door. "Holden!" I tried in a stage whisper. I tried a shout. "Holden!"

"Keep it down!" one of his neighbors yelled, then came out onto his balcony. "Lady..."

"Oh." He paused, taking me in. "How would you like it if I called the police?"

That was it. I'd had enough.

"Oh, please, go ahead," I said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You'll tell them, what? That there's a crazy M&M outside?"

The neighbor shook his head and went back inside.

After what seemed like a year and a ridiculous number of cars drove by for that time of day, Holden finally came out, rubbing his eyes. As soon as he saw me, he burst out laughing.

"Can you just please come down and get me?" I begged. More laughing. Now he was doubled over on his balcony, his face turning red.

"You know what, asshole? Can you laugh at me _after_ I come inside instead of while I'm standing on a street corner?

Holden went inside, only to come back out thirty seconds later with a camera. After his third snapshot of me at my worst, another neighbor appeared on a balcony. "Oh here we go again. Can't you and your girlfriends just give it a rest?"

That snapped Holden out of it. He went back inside and came down a few seconds later and opened the door for me. "I'm not his girlfriend!" I shouted up to the neighbor.

When the door swung open, I flew up the stairs and into his apartment, making a mad dash for the bathroom. I sat down on the toilet with a sigh of relief. I think I must have peed for five minutes straight. I washed my hands and face and examined my backside in the mirror. Yep, those damn tights were giving me a rash.

I needed to be in my bed, at my house - NOW. I had been through enough humiliation for one day. "Take me home," I ordered Holden when I finally exited the bathroom.

We got to my apartment around 8:15. I asked Holden to wait, just in case I couldn't rouse Cynthia to let me in. I knocked, then pounded. "Cynthia!" I shouted. It was no use. She probably wasn't even home.

Well, there was always the kitchen window. Cynthia said she had done it once, so I thought _how hard can it be_?

I made my way around the side of the building. The window was higher than I had remembered. I looked around nervously. I had never done this before. I knew it was possible because Cynthia had done it, but then again, she'd had help.

Instead of going to get Holden, I tried on my own. It was unlocked, but I needed to hoist myself up in order to squeeze through. Halfway through, my M&M costume got stuck. The wiring that kept the M&M's shape wouldn't budge. Either I had to take it off my head, or climb back down. If I took it off, I knew I could get in - I was already halfway there. So I squirmed out of the costume.

That's when I heard the distinct sound of our backyard gate opening and shutting. There was the sound of approaching footsteps and then they stopped. Here I was in tights, ballet flats, a bra, and no underwear, hanging out of my kitchen window with my head in my sink.

I heard a snort, followed by a guffaw. I could tell someone was trying to laugh _very quietly_ through their hand.

I kicked my feet out, hoping to catch whoever was standing behind me in the head. "Holden, I swear to God, if you take a picture..."

"It's not Holden," said a voice that was definitely _not_ Holden's.

_Shit._

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

_Please tell me this is not happening._

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

"If you are going to kill me," I said, "I'd really appreciate it if you could please not do it when my ass is hanging out the window? I don't want to be known in the news as That Girl Who Died With Her Ass Hanging Out a Window and No Underwear On. That would be kind of embarrassing."

"'_Kind of_?' I imagine that would be _monumentally_ embarrassing. 'No underwear' you say?" I couldn't see him, but I could _hear_ the smirk in his voice. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to leave home without clean underwear?"

"I _did_ have clean underwear on when I left home, _thank you very much_, but some snotty little bitch _demanded_ I give them to her!"

Another snort. "Wait a minute. Someone _stole_ your _underwear_? A _girl_?"

"I didn't say she _stole_ them..." I stopped. Was I actually rehashing my shitty Valentine's Day with _Jackson Rippner_ while reenacting a scene from _Winnie-the-Pooh_? The blood must not be getting to my brain. That, or I was still drunk. Why was I not screaming? Now would be a perfectly appropriate time to scream for help.

I opened my mouth and let out a blood-curdling scream.

"Lisa?" Jackson said calmly. I couldn't stop screaming. I kicked my legs out again, hoping to fend him off. I just knew any second now he was going to pull out a knife and stab me in the butt. Or shoot me. Probably in the butt.

"Lisa... Your friend already drove off... Lisa!"

I was wailing, now. "Get awaaay! Get away from me! HEEELP!"

"LISA!" I heard a dull _thwap_ before I even felt the blow that reverberated up my spine, pushing a high-pitched squeak of surprise out of my mouth. A tingling, then burning pain blossomed across my buttocks.

I hung there, motionless.

About twenty seconds later, he was standing in front of me at my kitchen sink, hands on his hips, shaking his head at me.

"Lisa?" he asked solemnly, trying not to grin his creepy Cheshire Cat grin. He wasn't fooling me. I could see it lurking there in his eyes. "Do you need a hand?"

"No thanks, I'm cool," I said offhandedly. As if people entered their apartments like this all the time.

He sighed deeply, then reached for my hands. "Give me your hands, Pooh," he smirked, reading my mind. The bastard! Then, a la Christopher Robin, he pulled me through.

I slithered down over the sink on my belly to the kitchen floor. I drew my knees up under my chin and wrapped my arms around myself in order to cover my bra and hoo-ha that anyone could plainly see though my tights. I glowered up at him.

"That _Winnie-the-Pooh_ quip... Was that a crack about my weight?"

"What?" I'd never heard his voice pitched quite so high. "No!"

"...Because I lost that fifteen pounds!"

Jackson looked confused. "Okay...?"

I suddenly remembered that my left butt cheek was smarting. "Did you smack my ass?"

Another lame attempt to stifle a grin. "I did," he admitted. "But you were hysterical." He quirked an eyebrow at me. "Rough night?"

Hearing Car Guy's words parroted back to me gave me a sinking, abysmal feeling. "You have no idea." I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes and sighed. When I looked up again, Jackson was eyeing the M&M costume with a vaguely inquisitive expression.

"It's not what you think."

"How do you know what I was thinking?"

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it's disparaging."

"Actually, I was thinking maybe the job search wasn't going so well and that you now peddle candy for a living."

I just glared at him.

"But," he continued, "this is a pretty nice place you've got here, so it can't be that..."

"Maybe I work at an escort service that specializes in clients with candy fetishes," I said tightly.

"_Occam's razor_, Lise. _The simplest solution is usually the correct one._ So, I'm going to guess... costume party?"

"Is that your final answer?"

He nodded. I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

"_Ding!_" I sang. "You are correct. But you are _still_ the weakest link," I intoned, mimicking Anne Robinson. "What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be in prison playing wife to some guy named Bubba?"

Now it was _his_ turn to glare. "Prison rape jokes. You're funny, Lise. Isn't that a little heartless, especially coming from you?"

"Heartless!" I shouted. " Oh, was I livid. "You've got a lot of nerve, buddy, calling _me_ heartless! You tried to kill me! You tried to kill my dad!"

"Do I need to remind you that you tried to do an _impromptu_ tracheotomy on me _first_?"

"Do _I_ really need to remind _you_ that you battered me, _strangled me_, tried to kill four people, including _two children..._" My voice was becoming shriller by the moment.

"You know what? Now you're pissing me off! I'm not going to sit here and defend myself for... _defending myself..._ and innocent people! No! NO!" I banged my fist against the cabinet. "_You_ need to _leave_! Get out! Get _out_! NOW!"

I knew my face must be scarlet with rage. I could feel the blood pounding in my temples. After a moment, I unclenched my fists and unscrewed my eyes. Attempting to calm myself, I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.

Jackson had disappeared.

I blinked a few times, my vision clearing a bit, my breath starting to return to normal.

A few moments later, he returned to the kitchen - albeit warily - my blue chenille bathrobe in his hands. Absentmindedly, I wondered how he knew it was mine and not Cynthia's.

He folded the robe carefully in half, and then half again, and laid it gently on the floor next to me. He took a step back and examined his shoes, his lips pressed in a tight line.

I picked up the robe and wrapped it around myself, wiped my face. I was surprised when my sleeves came away damp. Had I been crying this whole time? The thought of crying in front of _this guy_ - _him_, of all people! - only made me cry harder.

He stood there, awkwardly, not knowing exactly where to look.

I sniffed and wiped my eyes and nose for a second time, tried to swallow the giant ball of anxiety lodged in my throat.

Finally, I felt calm enough to say something.

"On the plane... With the pen... I wasn't _trying_ to kill you, Jackson," I said, willing him to understand. "I just wanted you to _stop_. That's the difference."

"I couldn't just _stop_, Lisa. I had a..."

"...A job to do," I finished for him. "Yeah, that's what they all say."

"Well, do you feel a little better, at least? Getting all that off your chest, I mean. I bet you've been wanting to scream at me for quite a while."

"That's the truth. Ehhh..." I groaned. "My head is starting to get fuzzy." Jackson turned and wandered away in the direction of my bathroom. Thirty seconds later he was back with two aspirin and half a glass of water. I eyed the pills warily, but took them, popped them in my mouth and chased them down with a gulp of water.

"Look, I didn't... I didn't come here to scare you. Or maybe I did, a little. I don't know... I just wanted you to know that you don't have to worry about me. I'm not plotting any grand revenge schemes. You beat me fair and square. I'm going to be a good sport about it..."

I couldn't believe the words that were actually coming out of his mouth. "A good sport about it? You tried to kill me! You were going to rape me and then kill me in front of my father!"

"I was not...!" he started to shout, but then quickly lowered his voice. "I was not going to _rape_ you," he hissed. "_Kill_ you, yes. But not _rape_ you! And I take _offense _at that accusation, okay?"

Wow. This guy's moral priorities were definitely skewed.

"So you're not a rapist. Good for you. They should give you the Nobel Peace Prize, I guess."

Jackson closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is certainly not going the way I'd planned."

"_Nothing_ ever goes according to plan," I snapped. "_You _of all people should know that. So, you don't want to kill me anymore, is that what you're saying? Bygones?"

"Yes, that is what I am saying."

"Well, Jackson, I wish you'd told me this back in Miami when I was going through my reclusive shut-in phase. You know, _before_ I moved across the country."

"Awww," he crooned. "But you're doing so _well_ out here, Lise. You apparently have more than one friend, now. You're definitely not a shut-in; you can barely get into your own house." He laughed. "No, the world is a far more amusing place with you in it."

"I'm so glad that I amuse you."

"No, really. You seem to have loosened up a bit. It suits you."

I was getting sick of his patronizing tone. Two could play that game. I put on my million-watt smile reserved for the most evil of clientele. "That's really sweet, Jackson. And may I say, _you_ seem decidedly _less_ homicidal. It suits _you_."

A grin slid across his lips. "Well, I took up yoga," he said, conversationally.

"Oh! What a coincidence. So have I." _And now for the verbal karate-chop_. My smile didn't waiver. "Still killing people for a living, Jack?"

Neither did his. "If it's called for. I'm my own boss, now. I've gone freelance, so I can be a little more choosey with my jobs.

"It must be a dream come true for you," I said sweetly.

He nodded. "You know, it really is."

God, I wanted to kick him in his pretty face.

"Well, listen, I'd love to stay here all day and banter with you, but I'm starving. What about pancakes?"

"What _about_ them?" I said.

He frowned. "I'm sorry, was I being obtuse? I want to buy you pancakes, Lisa," he said matter-of-factly. "Or whatever breakfast food you prefer. Think of it as a peace offering."

I blinked at him. I didn't know how to respond to that.

"I really don't know how to respond to that. Are... are you joking?"

"Oh, I never joke about pancakes," he said dryly.

I shook my head in disbelief. Was he screwing with me, or did I actually need to spell it out for him? "I don't think I feel comfortable going anywhere in a car with you, Jackson."

He nodded in acquiescence. "Fair enough. I saw a greasy spoon a couple blocks away. We could walk."

"I don't _want _breakfast," I said tersely. "I want to crawl into bed and _sleep_."

"Come on. Greasy food is the best cure for a hangover."

"Yeah, it makes you barf up any remaining alcohol in your stomach," I said sullenly.

He grinned, and it actually seemed to reach his eyes. "Then I promise to hold your hair back."

"I told you, I'm not hungry. I just want to sleep." Of course at that moment my stomach took the opportunity to give an embarrassingly audible growl.

"Uh huh. Come on, get dressed."

I could see that he was determined to disregard any argument I could possibly come up with. I rationalized that I was indeed famished, and that Mike's twenty-four hour diner really wasn't _that_ far. If Jackson Rippner wanted to kill me and chop me up into neat little bits, he could have already been well on his way to accomplishing that, instead of standing there trying to convince me to walk down the street and have pancakes with him. I'd be safer out in public.

"Fine. But you're going to have to wait _outside _while I get dressed."

That damn cocky grin appeared again. "What, you don't trust me?"

"About as far as I can throw you."

"You have to admit, I've been a perfect gentleman so far..."

I shot him a venomous glare. "Yeah, except for the spanking."

"My motives were completely legitimate." His mouth twitched, but he kept it under control. It's a good thing he did, too, or I couldn't have been held accountable for my actions.

"If you want me to go, you're going to have to wait outside."

He nodded and crossed to the kitchen door. I got up and followed him. He paused, shooting me a sideways glance. "How do I know you won't call the cops?"

It was my turn to give him a saccharine-sweet smile. "You don't," I said. "Give me fifteen minutes." I shoved him out the door and slammed it behind him.

XXXXX

To be continued…

A/N: Thanks for reading folks! There will be more to come soon. Bear with me – I'm without full time email access, so I have update from work during my down time.


	3. Chapter 3

We walked about a block in silence before he finally spoke.

"I couldn't help but notice there's no swat team descending on us, so I guess that means you didn't call for backup. Can I ask why?"

"What would be the point? You'd just pull a Houdini again. And I would miss out on Mike's double-chocolate chip pancakes."

"Are they that good?"

I made a show of rolling my eyes upward in a blissed-out expression. "Positively orgasmic. Also? I have a pen in my pocket."

Jackson took a quick step back. His face was a perfectly-schooled blank mask, but there was a definite widening of his eyes and a vague look of panic. He shook his head. "That's just mean."

I grinned. "You wanna see?"

He gave me a look of disgust. "No!" Then, thinking better of it, "Yes."

Slowly - with no sudden movements - I pulled the thick, pink plastic pen from the back pocket of my jeans and held it straight out, arm extended, right in his face, the little white figure at the top staring him down.

"_Hello Kitty_? Are you eight?"

"Rrrawr!" I growled and shook the pen at him. "Be nice to Kitty," I warned.

"Are you still drunk?" he sputtered, eyeing me like you would a crazy person who's gone off their meds.

I sighed and pocketed Hello Kitty again. "Probably."

xxxxx

We'd missed the morning rush at Mike's. There was a handful of senior citizens having coffee together, but other than that it was pretty much dead. As we were entering, Jackson grabbed the door and held it open. I hesitated, expecting him to go through, but he didn't move. It was a strange and awkward moment while I stood there and he stood there, neither of us moving, both mildly confused, until finally, he placed his hand lightly on the small of my back and ushered me into the building.

I stiffened immediately – not, oddly enough, because the physical contact with him repulsed me - but because it was so foreign. It had been so long, I had forgotten what it felt like to be led into a room by a man; that chivalrous, but slightly possessive gesture that makes a woman feel… not weak, but cherished. I'm a pretty liberated girl, but having spent half my life in Texas, I'm a sucker for a guy with manners. Out of all the dates I've been on since moving out here,_ one_ guy opened the door for me._ One_. I just wished I was experiencing this awkwardly adorable_ John-Hughes-_moment with someone_ other_ than Jackson Rippner.

If he noticed my reaction, Jackson made no show of it. He followed me to my favorite booth in the corner, a window seat, and slid in across from me.

He glanced around an then over at the door. "Actually, uh... Could we… Do you mind if we switch seats?"

I raised an eyebrow, but didn't object. If he was going to be all OCD about the seating arrangements, well, I'd just add that to his list of obvious neuroses; something I would do well to remember. His easy-going demeanor, the gentlemanly gesture at the door, that jolt of electricity from his hand on the small of my back – I'd met this guy before, and he wasn't_ real_. I couldn't let myself forget that.

I scooted out of the booth and swapped seats with him. As soon as he was facing the door, he visibly relaxed. I couldn't help but think what a strange life he must lead, always being on guard, always keeping one eye on the door. I might have felt sorry for him if I didn't know it was a life he had chosen for himself.

"So," he smiled, "come here often?"

"Not as much as I'd like. I love breakfast, but I love sleep more. I usually rush off to work with coffee in hand and that's about it."

He nodded. "I'm the same way."

The conversation stalled at that point. I picked at my nails and Jackson knocked out a beat on the table. It was surreal, but on_ eleven_. To my great relief, about a minute later, Dawn, one of the full-time waitresses came over in her squeaky Dr. Scholl's tennis shoes and set out two menus for us and two glasses of ice water.

"How ya doin', hon?" she asked in her soft, southern drawl. "You need a menu or you want the usual?"

"I am going to splurge this morning, Dawn. I want the double-chip pancakes and a coffee, please."

"You want a short stack or tall?"

"Tall," I said firmly. I was hungry and I'm not one of those women who are afraid to eat in front of men.

"And how 'bout you, hon?" she said, turning to Jackson. "You need a minute?"

He took a second to flip through the menu. "I'll have the buckwheat pancakes, tall stack, and the turkey bacon. Coffee, too, please. Thank you, Dawn," he handed the menu back to her and smiled – a smile that could have possibly melted the hearts (and underwear) of most woman and some men. It was positively angelic.

"Sure thing, hon." Dawn smiled back sweetly, gave me a little_ knowing_ look and floated off.

I rolled my eyes and wondered if Jackson had any inkling of the affect he had on women.

"What?" He must have caught the derisive look I had shot him. And now he was the picture of innocence.

"'_What?_'" I parroted back to him. I laughed. "You know_ what_."

He had the nerve to look confused. "No, seriously. What?"

"Are you really going to… You know what? Never mind." I waved my hand dismissively.

He sighed. "Lisa," he said, using that condescending professional tone that I despised, "do you have something you'd like to say?"

Suddenly, I was feeling rather sober. Well, he asked for it.

"Okay," I said, mimicking his tone of voice. I folded my hands primly on the table in front of me. "There_ is_ something I've been wondering since the red eye flight… Something that I've gone over and over in my head. Something that never quite made sense."

He imitated my posture and leaned in. "I'm all a-tingle." He smiled, but I could tell there was a challenge behind it.

I took a sip of my water. "Why the whole_ nice-guy_ act?"

He blinked, cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

I pursed my lips. "I_ mean_ at the airport in Dallas… Defending me and the airline employee against that irate guy in the ugly jacket? And then that phony parlor trick of guessing my drink?" I leaned forward. "If I didn't know you were a stalker, I would have thought you were hitting on me."

His smile faltered for a moment._ A hit! A palpable hit!_

I continued. "But that would be_ unprofessional_, and Jackson Rippner is nothing if not professional." There was a flush rising on his cheeks. I smiled calmly back at him.

"I don't think it's considered stalking if you're getting paid," he muttered.

I waved my hand. "Semantics. My point is, you didn't have to stick up for me when we were in line. You certainly didn't have to invite me for nachos at the bar. In fact, looking back, I think the reason I resisted so hard and for so long was, in part, because I had seen what I thought was this_ other_ side of you. I thought I could get through to you, appeal to whatever humanity was in you – or to that charming guy from the Tex-Mex.

"So again, I'm asking – why the nice-guy act? Why even bother? Was it because you get some perverse kick out of fooling people?"

Jackson frowned, eyes running over the imperfections of the table top. He smoothed the tips of his fingers over his lips in thought, then dropped his hand to his lap.

"Look," he sighed. "It's not like…" He broke off, grimacing. He was uncomfortable. I had never seen him so uncomfortable – not counting that time I rammed a Frankenstein pen into his throat.

He took a deep breath. "For my part, there was never any plan to fuck with your head. Okay? You're right, though. There was no good reason for me to talk to you in line. Everything you said about that is true." He drummed his fingertips on the table absentmindedly.

"My modus operandi for these kinds of situations was always,_ always blitzkrieg_: Understand your mark. Anticipate their reactions. Bombard them with negative emotional , and, if necessary, physical stimuli, and they_ will_ eventually perform the task you require them to perform.

"Of course, an airplane isn't the ideal setting. I was nervous about that," he admitted. "And that guy, he was being a real - to you. That was completely uncalled for…"

I burst out laughing at that._ Oh, the irony_. Jackson smiled back pleasantly, completely oblivious.

"Also, by the end of my usually allotted surveillance timeframe – three to five weeks is the norm – I wasn't confident that I knew you as well as I should. So I drew it out another week. And then another,_ and then another, and then another_…"

I looked up at him, a bit surprised at his honesty. He was examining me through slit eyes, as though I were a puzzle or a Rubik's cube that had him stumped. He shook his head.

"I was never able to put my finger on it, even after eight weeks, why you were the way you were." He lowered his voice, smiling a bit ruefully. "Beautiful women, as a rule, aren't reclusive." There was something about the tone of his voice - it was dark and warm, like melted chocolate. I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks at his comment. I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the paper placemat in front of me.

"They have boyfriends. Or they date. Or they have one night stands. Even a girl's night out with the girlfriends; _something_. They don't stay home every weekend and have Turner Classic Movie marathons with a plate of scrambled eggs for company. They don't go from Miss Type-A personality in high school and college to... Well, there were a few times I wondered if you were doing intensive training to enter a convent."

I huffed and rolled my eyes. "I'm not like that, _now_."

He grinned. "Clearly."

"I was going through a rough patch, okay? What, you've never had one?"

He held up his hands. "I'm not criticizing, Lisa. I'm just illustrating why I was so curious about you."

Dawn wandered over with our coffees and an apron full of creamers. Jackson ignored the cream and poured a couple spoonfuls of sugar into his cup. I couldn't help but blanch at how he took his coffee. I opened four little containers of creamer and stirred them in and then added another for good measure. I poured in a long stream of sugar, tasted it, then added a little more. Too much cream, too much sugar. Perfect.

We stirred our coffees, the metal clink of spoon against porcelain sounding impossibly normal, given the situation. "I see you still take coffee with your sugar and cream." He smiled, like it amused him.

"I don't know how you can drink that swill without it," I countered.

"Habit," he simply said. "We're all creatures of habit."

After a moment, he said, "You know, I never actually thought you'd take me up on the offer." I glanced up at him, confused. "For nachos," he explained. "I was sure you would make up some excuse. I was certain of it. That's why I asked. I wanted to reassure myself that I understood you, that you were predictable like everyone else. That I could handle you easily enough."

That warm, chocolate tone was gone from his voice. When he said things like that, I couldn't help but picture an icy lake. It made me shiver.

"But you surprised me when you showed up. That doesn't happen very often, people surprising me. I almost choked on my whiskey," he chuckled.

"I was torn, really. Half of me wanted to politely excuse myself and get the hell out of there, but the other half wanted to stay there and pick your brain. Figure out what makes you tick. See if I could find the missing piece in the puzzle. So, against my better judgment, I decided I wanted to know you better... Before the shit hit the fan, so to speak. Call it _professional curiosity_."

He leaned back abruptly as Dawn approached with our orders. It was like a sudden rush of cool air was pumped into our little bubble - the invisible layer surrounding our booth and blocking out the rest of the world.

She set the plates down in front of us, Jackson, with his health-conscious breakfast, and me, with my steaming tower of Hershey syrup-drizzled pancakes with a dollop of whipped cream on top. My stomach rumbled again as my olfactory senses caught a delicious whiff.

"Can I get ya'll anything else?" Dawn asked, pushing her black horn-rimmed glasses up a little on her nose.

"No, thanks," Jackson said.

"I'm good," I said, shooting her a quick smile. I just wanted to eat my breakfast and get out of here - away from him, _studying me like I was some goddamn science experiment_.

She nodded, "Well, enjoy," and bounced off in her squeaky shoes to seat a new customer.

We unwrapped our utensils from our napkins and dug in. Jackson eyed my pancakes with something that might have been envy. "That looks more like dessert than breakfast," he noted. The cheerful, light-hearted tone of voice was back. _Jesus, he must have multiple personality disorder._

"Yeah, well, after the day I've had..." I muttered.

He stopped chewing and swallowed. "I'm sorry. It must be unsettling to hear this."

I shook my head. "It's fine." But I could feel his laser eyes on me, trying to peel back the layers and know what was going on in my brain.

As I was bringing another forkful to my mouth he said softly, "I wanted to know why you were so sad."

The fork hesitated about an inch from my mouth while I took that remark in. Where could he possibly be going with this? Why would he say something like that, as if he actually cared? _Professional curiosity?_ Mean, angry, trying-to-murder-me: that was the Jackson I could handle. But nice? Caring? Concerned? I didn't know how to react to remarks like that from him. They threw me completely off-balance. Maybe that's what he was trying to accomplish. I couldn't handle that. I had to get out of there.

As I crammed the bit of pancake into my mouth and chewed double-time, he continued: "When I watched you those eight weeks, I remember thinking you had the saddest eyes. Not when you knew people were watching, of course. You hid it well. But when they looked away... When you were at home, alone... Or at the corner bar... your eyes would drift around the room, and... you'd get this look on your face... of utter loss."

I stopped eating. I stared down at my pancakes, letting my hair fall in my eyes like a curtain. I couldn't bear to look up at him. Part of me was horrified that he had seen me at my most vulnerable, that he had been privy to my private feelings, ones that I hadn't allowed anyone else to see. But another part of me was strangely... touched. Someone had noticed. Someone had taken the time to look closer, to see through the facade I wore like protective armor.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I don't feel like that anymore," I said softly.

"Maybe not as acutely as before, but it's still there." He reached over and with his index finger, swept my bangs out of my eyes and back behind my ear. "But there's also hope now, I think." The side of his finger brushed the shell of my ear and I shivered.

It wasn't entirely out of fear.

I settled back in the booth, poked at my pancakes with my fork. I could still feel his eyes on me. Eventually, he did the same, leaned back and took a drink of his coffee, the spell broken.

Snapping out of it, I sighed, and with that exhalation, a dull feeling of anger and annoyance flooded in. I put down my fork with an abrupt clink. I finally worked up the courage to look him in the eye. "I appreciate your candor, Jackson. I do. But tell me this: who is it that I'm talking to?"

He shook his head slightly and pursed his lips, trying to decipher my meaning. He opened his mouth and took a breath as if he meant to say something, then let out the breath he was holding and looked at me expectantly. Is it possible I had stumped him? This from a guy who had a quick and cutting answer for everything.

"What I mean is, who is it sitting across from me, now, at this moment? Is it the man from the Tex-Mex? The man from the plane? You've been so many different people with me, Jackson, you'll have to excuse me if I'm a bit confused and surprised by this turn of events."

He smiled. "I think you'd be surprised about a lot of things if you really knew me, Lisa."

"No, if I really knew you, I know exactly what I'd find: instead of a brain, a check register; and instead of a heart, a bottom line."

My mouth dropped open. Had I actually said that?

"What," he glowered. "What is it?"

"I think I just had a breakthrough," I said, amazed. "I guess I have you to thank for that. For the first time, when confronted with a horrible, insensitive person, I knew exactly what I wanted to say and I said it."

"Well, you have a gift for it. That was a perfect blend of poetry and meanness."

"Meanness! Let me tell you something about meanness..."

He held up his hand. "Don't misunderstand me, I'm just trying to pay you a compliment."

"Oh."

He seemed sincere enough and here I was, biting his head off. "Look," I said after a moment. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to say things like that. Despite everything you've done, there's no excuse for my saying that. That was horrible."

"No, no. I'm the horrible one."

"Well, that's true. But _I_ have no excuse."

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh. I see what you're saying. Whereas I _am_ a horrible person, therefore I have no choice but to _be_ horrible. That's what you're saying?"

I cringed. "I'm sorry, but every time you speak..."

"…Things like that just fly out of your mouth."

"Yes!"

"You wanna claw my eyes out."

"Well... Kind of, yeah."

"Well, that's okay. You're entitled to hate me."

"I know." I took a sip of my coffee, now lukewarm. "So," I said, returning to my previous question, "which person are you today, Jackson?"

"I can't be both?"

"I don't see how that's possible," I said softly.

He mulled this over for a minute. "I guess I'll just have to prove it to you, then."

"That's not necessary. Really."

He took a another breath. The tension around his eyes dissipated. His shoulders, usually straight and square, relaxed. "Okay," he said. "Truth time. There was nothing _professional_ about my curiosity."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

His eyes darted around the diner, like he was about to reveal some deep, dark secret; as if he were searching out a hidden enemy who might overhear. "Sometimes I get these thoughts and I wonder..."

"What?"

"If I hadn't been hired for the Keefe job, and you hadn't been managing the Lux, and we had just met somewhere, out of the blue..."

"Oh." I wasn't sure I was comfortable with where this was going.

"Yeah... I would have asked for your number. And I wouldn't have been able to wait twenty four hours before calling you up and saying: 'Hey, how about coffee, or drinks? Or dinner, or a movie... 'til death do us part?" He laughed nervously, like he had just made a really lame joke.

Oh.

_Oh._

I _really_ hadn't expected _that_.

I looked at my pancakes, at the Formica table top - anywhere but at him.

"Jackson..."

He ignored me and continued, the words rushing out of his mouth in a great hurry, as if he just had to get them out into the air, into the open, or he'd explode. "And you and I would never have been at odds. None of that trying to kill each other nonsense. The only thing we'd fight about would be which DVD to rent on a Saturday night."

I smiled hesitantly. "Do people _really_ fight about things like that?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. _We_ wouldn't, though."

I shook my head in agreement. "We would never." I laughed, "No, chances are I would find out about this _tiny_ little detail of what you do for a living..."

He grinned. "...And you'd run screaming into the night..."

"...And you'd chase after me with a butcher knife..."

"...Shouting, 'Wait, sugarplum! Can't we talk about this?'

"_Sugarplum?_" My lip curled in disgust.

"Would you prefer _snicker doodle_?"

"I'd prefer _not _to be called _food_."

"Ah," he nodded in understanding. After a moment, he shrugged, wistfully.

"If only."

_Yeah. If only. _

_If only we were both someone else._

All the humor seemed to drain from the conversation. The mood had taken a distinct turn and wound up somewhere in left field. I felt it and he felt it.

"I have to go..." I said, unable to speak in anything other than a hushed tone. My throat just wouldn't allow it.

"Will you let me walk you back?" His voice was soft as well, as though he were having the same difficulties.

I nodded. "Okay."

xxxxx

The walk back to my apartment was very like the walk to the diner: quiet, but now there was a sobering air of gravitas surrounding us. I shivered, wrapped my arms around myself to fend off a sudden gust of chilling wind, and wished for a sweatshirt. Jackson's hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. For the first time, I noticed he was wearing normal clothes: jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt – startlingly different from the business casual attire he wore that night on the plane - and had always worn since in my nightmares. Now he looked like a kid. He could have passed for some UCLA student even, considering how young he looked with his freshly shaved face and his hair falling in his eyes - just a little too long to look professional.

We walked around the corner of my building to the back door. I pulled the spare key from my purse and shoved it into the lock. With my back to him, I could feel the warmth of his body – or maybe he was just blocking the cold wind. Either way, it was terribly distracting and it took a couple of jiggles to get the lock open.

I glanced back at him with what tried to pass as a smile, but was probably more like a nervous grimace.

"Well…" I began, about to offer a quick thanks so I could rush inside and get away from this uncomfortable situation - but he cut me off.

"Look, I know I blew…" He shook his head. "Let me rephrase that: _nuked_ any chance I would _ever _have had, but do you think... Could you ever... consider... possibly... forgiving me?"

I studied his face for any trace of insincerity and could find none. If he was trying to pull something over on me, he deserved an Academy Award because the half-wistful, half-pleading look masked with a feigned air of nonchalance appeared all too genuine.

"I... I don't know, Jackson. I had the rug ripped out from underneath me once and just as I was starting to get my bearings, you came along and did it again. It's enough to make a person want to stay in bed. _Indefinitely_."

"Sure," he nodded a little too quickly.

"I just need time."

"No, I understand."

"Thank you for breakfast," I offered.

He smiled slightly. "You're welcome."

I stepped through the threshold, then turned back once more.

"Sweet dreams, Lisa."

I nodded, unable to respond, and closed the door behind me.

xxxxx

To be continued…


	4. Chapter 4

"_What_ are you doing here?"

Jackson Rippner lifted his head, a slight look of surprise crossed his face as he snapped shut the thick paperback book he held.

"Hello, Lisa." He smiled pleasantly up at me.

I glared back at him. "_What are you doing here_!" I hissed again.

I was standing in the middle of the biography section of the West Pico Barnes and Noble on a Saturday afternoon at the beginning of April. It had been about six weeks since our bizarro-world meeting and, much to my relief, I had not seen him since.

Jackson frowned and looked around, as though he were genuinely confused. "I'm sorry?"

I clenched my teeth and put my hand on my hip. "Don't play dumb, Jackson. I said, _what are you doing_!"

His eyes narrowed for a moment before an unnervingly placid expression settled over his features. He raised one eyebrow and held up his paperback as proof. The cover of John Kennedy Toole's _A Confederacy of Dunces_ in all its cartoonish garishness caught my eye. I recognized it immediately, of course. It was a copy of the same book I'd had on my nightstand back home six weeks ago when Jackson had picked the lock on my back door and yanked me through my kitchen window.

"_I_ am not doing _anything_. _I_ am calmly reading."

He leaned back into the over-stuffed chair, brought his right leg up over his left knee, and settled back comfortably into his previous position. He cracked open his book again and began reading, ignoring me.

I could feel my mouth twisting into a sour expression as I stood there looking at him. "So, what, you're stalking me now? Is that it?"

He sighed and closed his book again. "Last I heard, this was still a free country – though I'm not sure how long that's going to last," he muttered to himself. I scowled at him.

"How long have you been here?" I demanded.

He turned his wrist and glanced at his watch. "About forty minutes longer than you, it would seem. Who's following whom, now, Leese?"

"So, out of all the bookstores in the Los Angeles area, you just happen to patronize this one? _Today,_ of all days?"

"Well, it _is_ the closest one to my house, so…"

I recoiled at the thought that he might actually be living in my neighborhood. Great. Running into Jackson Rippner at the corner coffee shop or during my morning run would be such a _great_ way to start my day from now on.

"What's so special about today, anyway?"

"What?"

"You said, 'Today, of all days.'"

"Oh. Well, it's April first."

"Uh huh…"

"April Fool's day?"

"Riiiight," he nodded.

"And you expect me to believe this is a coincidence?"

He shrugged and smiled, batting his ridiculously long eyelashes. "Maybe it's fate?"

I rolled my eyes and shifted my stack of books from one arm to the other. "Hardly. What it _is_, is _you_…following me around, trying to freak me out. Well, these tactics are _not_ going to work, okay, Jackson? They are _not_ going to work!" I hissed in righteous indignation.

He sighed that world-weary sigh in the way he does - the way a parent would sigh when they're at their rope's end with an irrational child. I really wanted to hit him.

Jackson stood up, rising to his feet with a kind of languid ease that I associated with him - and cobras. I immediately took a step back.

He brushed back the sides of his jacket and planted his hands firmly on his hips. "I'm really disappointed, Lisa. I thought we were past all this." Christ, he sounded like a high school principal.

"I don't know what you could be expecting. You turn up - not once, but twice, out of the blue – and you act like we're old acquaintances…"

"You don't like me on your turf. I get it. If it's all right with you, _Officer Krupke_, I'll just buy my book and go."

"Stop the presses. Did you just reference _West Side Story_?"

"I believe so."

I looked up to the ceiling in an expectant manner.

"What are you doing?" he asked, parroting me this time.

"Looking for the four horsemen of the apocalypse. I'm expecting them any minute now…"

He laughed. Actually _laughed_. Out loud.

"It wasn't _that_ funny," I said after a minute of watching his shoulders shake in an attempt to suppress his own laughter. I think he might have snorted, too.

He finally pulled himself together and his infuriatingly placid demeanor returned. "No, you're right. It wasn't that funny. I just can't get over the fact that you actually have a sense of humor."

I threw my hand up, shaking my head. "Every time we meet, you're always _insulting_ me," I said. "And anyway, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?"

"I have a great sense of humor."

I nodded. "Uh huh. Forgive me for retaining a healthy level of skepticism. Unless… Would this oh-so-great sense of humor include bizarre pseudo-dates involving pancakes?"

"You're forgiven… and actually it would involve bizarre pseudo-marriage proposals."

My shoulders slumped in utter mortification. "Oh, god," I muttered. "I was hoping that had been a drunken hallucination."

"Ouch!" He clutched at his chest in mock-pain and then chuckled. "I unburden my soul to you and get brutally rebuffed? You're a mean, mean girl, Lisa Reisert."

I tried not to smile. "Better rejection than a pen in the throat."

He flinched. "Hmm. True," he agreed. I grinned.

I was starting to feel a little bad. He really had been nothing but perfectly affable during our recent encounters – mild jibes aside - and I here I was, being a total bitch to him. Again. I shuffled the load of books in my arms, gnawed at the inside of my cheek, and tried to think of something to say.

"Well," he said after a moment, "good seeing you, Leese."

I was about to say, _You too_, but instead I said, "You…don't have to leave."

It sounded oddly desperate to my own ears and I quickly covered with: "I was just going to grab a coffee and check out, so…"

"Coffee sounds good," he said brightly, flashing a brilliant, million-watt smile, and he took my books right out of my arms before I could say anything else.

"Uh..." I stuttered, floundering for words: _I didn't mean let's have coffee together... I have somewhere to be…_ _I don't think that's a good idea…_ Instead I made a few vowel sounds at his retreating back. He headed toward the café, not turning back once to see if I was even following.

I looked around, wondering if anyone else in Barnes and Noble had noticed the universe was slightly off-kilter this morning; but no. They were all blissfully unaware, the lucky bastards.

I snapped my gaping mouth shut and shrugged, resigned, in that moment, to bear whatever fate had in store for me with grace and fortitude.

If that didn't work, I had mace.

Xxxxx

Sorry it's so short! Another update is coming, I swear!


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